


The Fear Returned

by Nightscrawl



Series: The Meaning of More [17]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28588782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightscrawl/pseuds/Nightscrawl
Summary: Consequences from the Fade.This is the beginning of a seven-part mini-series within the Meaning of More series. Follow along with Judah and Dorian as the pressures of the Inquisition and role of Inquisitor become nearly too much to bear.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Dorian Pavus/Male Warrior Trevelyan
Series: The Meaning of More [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/974214
Kudos: 9





	The Fear Returned

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks once again to [Schattenriss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schattenriss/pseuds/Schattenriss) for doing the beta.

_Ah, we have a visitor. Some foolish little boy comes to steal the fear I kindly lifted from his shoulders. You should have thanked me and left your fear where it lay, forgotten. You think that pain will make you stronger? What fool filled your mind with such drivel? The only one who grows stronger from your fears is **me**. But you are a guest here in my home, so by all means, let me return what you have forgotten._

—Nightmare

As they walked along, he considered that “emerald” was indeed the perfect word to describe the color of the lush foliage in this region of the Dales. Filtering through the canopy, the light sometimes cast the world below in such brilliant hues as to make him think they were within a living gemstone. The crumbling elven ruins and Orlesian villas were so many inclusions, the dividing river a brilliant, sparkling fissure.

Having dealt with the disgruntled Freemen of the Dales, peace had at last returned to the Emerald Graves. It was the peace of the dead, buried, and forgotten heroes of elven legend; an ephemeral peace that was soon disturbed by the piercing roar of a dragon and the thunderous beat of her massive wings.

For the better part of an hour, they waged a battle against the greater mistral. The party was exhausted, the dragon was exhausted; it only remained to decide which of these would be the first to take the stumbling steps that marked their end. Time and again he thought it was to be the dragon, and time after time she rallied with newfound will and fought on. She made great leaps and turned away as she tried to swat at the troublesome gnats that peppered her hide with an endless barrage of dagger slashes, bolt pricks, and the searing pain of magical burns. She occasionally took to the air, blanketing the area with the stinging freeze of her breath, landing so suddenly as to knock them to the ground with a rush of wind.

On one such strafing run, Dorian took careful aim to throw a lance of fire that scorched along the full length of the dragon’s body. The pain was so intense that it caused her to abbreviate the gout of frost she was spewing and release an ear-splitting screech, momentarily stunning them. On landing, she focused her ire on the source of that pain—Dorian. He tried to redirect it to himself with a slash of his sword, but it caught only air as the mistral leapt away. She set her legs and he rushed toward her, thinking to force her attention back on him, but before he got within striking distance, she swung her tail in a great, sweeping arc.

The length of the battle had slowed Dorian’s reaction. Unable to move out of range, he was helpless as the tail connected with a sickly _thwack_. The mage flew in one direction, his staff in another, both landing separately outside the bounds of the elven ruin that was their incidental arena.

Time seemed to slow as he watched the event unfold. He saw Dorian start to run after the dragon’s leap had repositioned her nearer. He saw the other man’s eyes widen as he realized he’d been too slow. He saw his form bend around the curve of the tail as it lifted Dorian off his feet and flung him away. He thought, bizarrely, that the staff seemed no more than a toothpick as it sailed in a different direction from its owner. He heard his own breathing echo through his helmet, drowning out all else. He felt a fist clench around his heart when he saw that Dorian was still.

Time snapped back to normal as the dragon refocused on him. As exhausted as she was—as they all were—her last effort had left her dazed. As she shook her head to clear it, he saw the opening he needed. Rushing forward, he stabbed his sword up to the hilt into her jugular at the base of the neck, jerked it out, and moved away. A reflexive cringe caused blood to spurt away and splash the surrounding rubble, staining the stones crimson. The shock of it all forced the mistral down on her forelegs. Although she looked at him with rage, her life was quickly draining away; her hind legs came down, her head came to rest on the ground, her breathing slowed as the blood pooled around her.

He did not wait to watch the dragon die. Throwing down sword and shield and tossing helmet aside, he ran to where his love lay unmoving and stood over him for a moment, stunned. Dorian was alive, his breathing labored and wet, and aside from a hint of blood in his mouth he looked normal.

“Dorian,” he called, and was rewarded by the slow opening of the other man’s eyes as he knelt beside him.

Recognition flashed across Dorian’s face. “I shouldn’t be surprised… Not when I finally have—” he attempted, but was interrupted by a fit of coughing that sent blood spattering from his mouth.

“But you look fine,” he replied, eyes beginning to fill.

Dorian gave a weak chuckle and grimaced in pain. “Of course I do.”

Wanting to find an injury, to see if he could possibly do _something_ , he began undoing Dorian’s armor. He dealt with the metal hooks as usual, but for the various leather straps he pulled the dagger from the sheath across his back and began cutting them away.

Tears leaked from Dorian’s eyes and disappeared into his hairline as he attempted to get him to stop. “Judah…”

“Shut up,” he ordered, forcefully cutting away the leather panel on Dorian’s right side. Misplaced anger crept into his voice as he asked, “Why do you wear this anyway? Does it actually _do_ anything?”

Finally finished, he moved up the collared undershirt. Unable to utter any words or exclamations, he only released a sound of shock and pain at what he found underneath.

A darkening bruise colored nearly the entire length of Dorian’s torso; irregular lumps made clear that the blow had broken several ribs; his chest rose and fell minutely with shallow breathing. Knowing what it meant, his face crumpled at the sight and he gasped out a single sob.

“Death by dragon. Now that’s a good… tale…” Dorian said.

He made a wet laugh. Hot tears streaming down his face, he leaned forward to kiss Dorian firmly on the mouth, not caring that he was bloody, trying to compel him into further life. He pulled away after several seconds, tasting the metallic tang of blood mixed with the salt of his own tears.

Displeased with sight of his own blood on his lover’s face, Dorian used his remaining strength to raise his hand and wiped it away, smiling softly as he did so. “Amatus…”

The hand began to fall after the motion, but he caught it, kissing the back as he clutched at it. “Please don’t,” he pleaded. “Please…”

Dorian’s face slowly relaxed and his eyes slipped closed as he drifted away. Seeing the change, he lowered his face to the crumpled shirt and gave way to wracking sobs.

With a great gulp of air, he released his full anguish, screaming into Dorian’s chest and driving himself awake.

* * * * *

Judah screamed himself awake and sat up with a start. His face was wet, his throat felt raw, his breathing was ragged, his eyes were wild as they tried to make sense of his surroundings. The fire had reduced to mere embers as it sat unattended over the past few hours, barely even illuminating the surrounding stonework. An overcast sky blocked out most of the stars, but the hidden moon cast a diffuse light that crept into the room as a silver glow. The whole world was shades of grey except for the small orange slivers in the fireplace.

He’d been in the Emerald Graves, during the day, wearing his full kit of armor, accompanied by Dorian, Varric, and Cole, fighting a high dragon. Now he was in his quarters at Skyhold, at night, naked beneath the covers, alone, fighting against a dream. A dream. That’s all it was. The word “dream” seemed too tame for what he’d experienced. A nightmare, then.

Even knowing it was a dream, shards of anguish still lingered in his mind, piercing his heart with the loss. It seemed _so real_ : the color of the forest, the sparkle of the river, the sound of birds and other wildlife that had ceased when the dragon made herself known, the ache in his shield arm from a battle that had gone on too long, the look of pain on Dorian’s face, the blood, his broken body. And even knowing it _wasn’t_ real, waking to an empty bed made it so much worse, an element of verisimilitude that suggested the nightmare was true.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Judah firmly planted his feet on the floor, an anchor to the waking world. Wasn’t he already weighted by an anchor? The Anchor bestowed upon him by Corypheus’s orb, an anchor to the Fade. Solas suggested it was this that allowed him to dream with such focus and clarity, bringing realism to dreams that, for most people, were _sur_ real, chaotic, nonsensical, or confusing.

Judah raised his Anchor hand and studied its mark. Away from the Breach or any active rifts, the slash across his palm was muted, softly glowing a fade-touched green that was easily hidden by the fisting of his hand. Simultaneously a boon and a bane, the Anchor marked him as the Herald of Andraste, granting him the ability to seal rifts as well as saddling him with all of the responsibility the holy moniker entailed. Corypheus styled him a “thief,” and the Anchor marked Judah as his rival and the only one who had the slightest chance of stopping his rise to godhood.

Wanting the cheer of its light and warmth, Judah stood and went to poke the fire into life again. When it was blazing, he stared at it as he leaned against the stone and considered. He had the desire to find Dorian, to hear the soft sound of his untroubled breathing, to feel his warmth, to see his skin untainted by blood and his face relaxed in true slumber, not in that _other_ sleep from which there was no waking. On occasion, Dorian remained in the library and read late into the night. As he was not in their bed, Judah knew there were a few possibilities: he was still there, awake and reading; he’d fallen asleep in his chair while reading; he’d decided to sleep in his own, seldom-used bed, either due to tiredness and proximity, or from a reluctance to disturb. Judah hoped it was either of the former, rather than the latter, of these.

Deciding to forgo smallclothes, Judah stepped into his pants and then his boots, only tightening the laces enough to allow for secure walking. As he pulled on his undershirt, he considered the lateness of the hour and deemed himself presentable enough to roam about the castle, doubting he would see more than the occasional watchful guard.

On reaching the library, Judah smiled to find what he wanted there: Dorian dozing with his head nestled in a crevice of the wing-backed chair, a book closed over a hand to mark his place.

After the first few months of living within Skyhold’s secluded safety, Dorian had begun to dress more casually, leaving the armor behind for style that was befitting his personal taste. On this evening, he wore a wrap-around cranberry shirt, secured by a golden snakehead clasp, along with supple great bear leather pants that laced up the hip, and pointed, knee-high pull-on boots with decorative golden buckles. The cut of the shirt allowed the golden birthright a prominent display, an ornament made glowing by the library’s limited light.

Judah leaned against the shelves and watched him for a moment. Face relaxed, lips slightly parted, Dorian was peaceful in his repose. Finally satisfied with his watching, he leaned over and shook his friend’s knee, whispering his name as he did so.

Dorian came awake with a single deep breath. He smiled at the one who woke him, set the book aside, and made a sprawling, languid stretch in his chair. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Judah repeated, and extended his hand. “Come to bed.”

Taking the proffered hand, Dorian allowed Judah to pull him out of the chair and lead him away from the library. The keep was silent and dark as they made their way to Judah’s quarters. The lateness of the hour had long since extinguished most of the candles and only a few wall sconces lit their path; the stained glass windows in the great hall were dead without the sun to give them life.

Judah continued to hold Dorian’s hand even as they entered their quarters—for he _did_ think of it as _theirs_ —and used it to pull the other man to him as they approached the bed. “Tired?”

Dorian smiled. “No.”

“May I?” Judah asked, fingering the snakehead clasp.

“Mm-hmm.”

On this night, their coming together allowed Judah a reprieve from the pain and loss inflicted by the nightmare. Afterward, he lowered himself to lie on Dorian but felt the need for a bit more. He kissed along his shoulder, traveled up his neck, kissed the line of his jaw to the chin. On arriving at his mouth, he hesitated. Dorian’s eyes were closed; he couldn’t tell if he was waiting for him or still in a raw state from the sexual experience.

Dorian opened his eyes and asked, “Well?”

Needing no other inducement, Judah brought their lips together in a gentle kiss. A feeling of contentment settled over him as he felt Dorian envelope him in his arms and legs, liking the idea of being completely wrapped up in the other man.

As they kissed, unwelcome images of that _other_ kiss flashed in Judah’s mind: the slick feel of blood against his lips, its taste, Dorian’s lack of response, the soft smile afterward as he reached to wipe the blood from his face. Chest constricting, he breathed deeply in an attempt to ease it away but was not successful. His eyes stung as he tightened his grip on the living Dorian beneath him, relieved and happy that his love was alive.

Feeling the change, Dorian wondered at it, and then was struck with surprise and concern as he felt the warm drop of a tear slide across his cheek. He pushed Judah away so he could look at his face. Although Judah was between himself and the glow of the fire, there was enough ambient light to see that his eyes were shiny and that a single line drew halfway down his cheek. He raised a hand to wipe it away as he asked, “What’s wrong?”

Judah almost explained when he started, “You’re—” but cut himself short. He couldn’t very well _tell_ Dorian that he was alive, could he? Of course he was alive; it had only been a dream—a nightmare—and he felt foolish for allowing it to affect him in this way. “Nothing… I’m just… glad you’re here with me,” he amended.

Dorian could tell it was only a half-truth, but also that he was unlikely to get anything else. He wasn’t overly concerned by this; Judah was so open with him that he knew he would tell him eventually, when he was ready. He smiled and said, “Where else would I be?”

The words were light, clearly intended to make him feel better, and they were successful. Judah smiled his love at him in response and Dorian understood. Knowing that Judah understood _him_ as well, he was content in their mutual, unstated understanding of each other’s feelings.

They smiled into the kiss as they began again. It was lighter, softer, and Judah breathed easier in it. He banished the dream to a dark, seldom looked-to corner of his mind and hoped to never think on it again.

End.


End file.
